"H'm. So so. That's what you call it."
The tone implied reproach or reproof or expostulation. Chip kept his eyes on his knife and fork.
"Well, what do you call it?"
"Oh, I'm not obliged to give it a name. I hear other people do that."
"And what do other people say—since you seem to want me to ask the question?"
"I do. I think you ought to know. They say it's a pity."
Chip took on the defiant air of a bad boy. "They can say it—and go to blazes."
"They'll say it, all right. Don't you worry about that. But I rather think that you'll do the going to blazes—at this rate."
Chip raised his haggard eyes. "Well, why not? What is there any better than blazes for me to go to? Besides, it isn't so awful—when you've got nothing else."
"Oh, rot, Walker! I'm ashamed of you. I can imagine a man of your type doing almost anything else but taking to drink."